Spirit Lodge, Saturday Night by Kristofer Collins


When in doubt return to what you know best
the gorgeous dark eight steps down
and the violent gaze of an archangel

this warm lacuna dim with blurry voices
and the boys in the back baking up pizzas
flour dandering their beautiful beards

the corner vending machine advertising smoke and coke
and the cool contours of a cherry red chopper
announce themselves like the last band to ever play The Decade

like the advent of winter’s first freeze
the streets of Lawrenceville are glazed sweet with the stuff
and old Allegheny Cemetery keeps her secrets stone-still

under the sagging cloth of early January
you say you could drink the bottom out of this town
and still have room for one swallow more

more of this black beer beading the glowing bud of your lips
more of this swirling organ aching as a broken femur
more of this dance floor dotted and luminous as a million freshly-minted pennies

the Spirit Lodge on a spectrally quiet Saturday night grants shelter
to all the spooky shit that goes bump in our brains
holds its arms wide in welcome to the demons of our damned foolish decisions

we share so much and say so little
sequestered here the new year creeping across Butler Street
calling our names and pointing to the clock.


Kristofer Collins lives in Pittsburgh, PA with his wife and their stupid cats.

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